


keepin' on the light

by outwardbound93



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Ghost Louis, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Psychic Harry, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 19:43:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8026555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outwardbound93/pseuds/outwardbound93
Summary: The cab pulls away in a puff of exhaust and snow crunched under the tires, and Niall watches it go, Liam’s keys clenched in his palm. He never used to be alone so much as he does now that he feels like he’s caving in all the time. Niall takes a moment to let his face drop out of a smile, and then he turns to Liam’s car.Harry’s stood at the counter inside his shop, unashamedly watching Niall. The door is propped open, so Niall can clearly hear him say, “You look cold.”It sounds like a line out of a play. Niall responds in kind. “Reckon you’ve got tea.”





	keepin' on the light

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from the lumineers' 'holdin' on.'

Liam seems to be the only one who misses Louis as acutely as Niall does. He keeps glancing to Niall but not at him, and then his gaze slides over a bit to land on Niall, and he meets Niall’s eyes with the same indulgent grimace every time. It looks like, _Good lord_ , and _For Christ’s sakes, Louis_ , Liam’s voice riding on a laugh, and _Can’t you do anything about your boy, Niall?_ These days it looks more like, _Sorry_. 

The fourth time it happens, Niall pushes himself away from the table. His chair scrapes against the wooden floorboards a little too loudly, so he claps his hand down on Liam’s shoulder on his way by to say, _It’s fine_. He leans down to Liam’s ear to shout, “Got to take a wee,” over the pounding bass. 

“Careful you don’t fall in,” Liam answers, an easy grin curving his lips. It does nothing to hide the little crease between his brows. His warm, wet breath smells like eight-dollar vodka shots, and Niall can just imagine Louis commenting,  _There’s faster ways to get plastered, mate_ , as mildly as ever he was. It doesn’t make the little ball of grief-wrapped tension in Niall’s chest any looser, but it doesn’t hurt any worse, either. 

Niall threads his way between battered wooden tables seating at least one other stag do. The bathroom door does a good job blocking out the sounds of Drake’s “Take Care,” so Niall’s left with the tinkling sounds of his own pee, then the tap running as he washes his hands. 

He never used to pay attention to little sounds like that, but now every moment of quiet feels like a moment where Louis should be talking, so Niall can’t help but notice. He bypasses the complimentary hand towels for the paper version with a quick mental apology to the environment since God only knows what those ragged washcloths have been through. 

Going back out to the lads means mustering up the energy to act like his old self, so Niall stands in front of the sink twisting the paper towels in his grip, studying his own reflection. His blue eyes look enormous in his face, though whether it’s because of his hair, cropped short and all dark now, or the way his cheeks have hollowed out, he doesn’t know. He looks gaunt, and serious, and somehow younger than he expected, and Niall cedes Liam’s point that he should eat more. 

Lou used to always pick up takeout on his way home from work, and then Niall sat down to do his bills a couple of weeks ago and realized how much he’d been spending on twice as much takeout as he needed, half of it going uneaten into the bin, and. Anyway. Maybe he can cook more like he used to do in uni. Niall shakes his head, tosses his paper towels, and steps back out into the strip club. 

The sound washes over him like a wave. Niall can see Liam and the rest of the boys at their cluster of tables pushed together, looking ebullient and handsome and what’s more, happy. His faces is all crinkled up in a laugh, and he’s flattened his hand over his chest like he’s trying not to let the laughter out. It softens the prickling edges of Niall’s heart, and he lets himself look for a moment. 

He doesn’t go over, not yet. Niall doesn’t want to go back and remind Liam of what he’s lost, or infect the rest of them with his grief, or whatever. He slips past the bouncer and back out the front door, instead, stepping out onto the cold street. His breath curls in front of him like an elaborate smoke ring, and Niall fumbles in his pocket for a fag. He quit smoking for a while, and then it was only with Louis, only occasionally, and now it just provides him with a good excuse to step out and get some time to himself. The smoke smell clings to him and Niall knows it makes his mum and Liam worry, but it smells like long mornings on the tiny balcony outside their flat watching the city wake up over coffee and Niall plucking the strings on his guitar. 

A light smattering of snow whirls down from overhead, the sky a solemn gray. Niall sticks the fag between his lips and cups his palms around the lighter, inhaling to make the flame take. He slips the lighter, and his hands, back into his pockets. The flashing neon sign above the strip club light the gray and white street in alternating shades of red and gold and green. Niall absently turns on his heel and wanders up the street just a few steps, listening to snow crunch beneath his boots and the sound of his own breathing. 

The bell above the door in a nearby shop tinkles, so Niall turns to watch someone come out. He collects the sign outside the door, advertising – Niall squints, he should’ve worn his glasses – palm readings, Tarot cards. _Bullshit_ , Niall thinks summarily, and flinches guiltily when the shopkeeper catches him looking, like he’ll have heard what Niall was thinking. The shopkeeper offers Niall a wave, so Niall waves back without thinking. He finally remembers to take a hit off the cancer stick burning up between his lips, and it tastes more bitter than he expects. Niall should really go back inside soon. If he doesn’t, Liam will notice, and then Niall’s plan to spare him a moment of anything besides happiness tonight won’t work. 

The bell tinkles again, and the shopkeeper comes back out. Niall doesn’t realize he’s approaching him until he stops an arm’s length away and clears his throat. It makes Niall jump all the same. 

“You look cold,” the bloke offers, with a little smile. There’s a paper cup of – something, Niall doesn’t know – in his outstretched hand, steam curling gently out of the hole in the top. “It’s just tea, I promise.” 

“It’s not that cold,” Niall says. He can smell the tea, and it smells like Yorkshire, and he doesn’t want it. He accepts the cup just to be polite, shocked at how hot the paper is against his palm. Okay, maybe he is cold. “Thanks.” 

“It’s no problem. You know, I never get the single-serve bags, so I always end up with a whole pot of tea and no one to share it with.” 

Niall gives him a little smile and a nod and hopes that’ll be enough. 

The bloke goes on in his low, rambling voice, “I think that’s the spirit of a cuppa, though. In the town where I grew up, my mum would’ve never just made one cup. The ladies at the bakery I worked at – I used to work at a bakery – would be so disappointed in me, though I expect they still are, since I don’t have scones or anything to go with it. I might have some biscuits back at the shop, though, if you’d like.” 

“No, er,” Niall hesitates, “no, thank you.” Yorkshire tea smell seems to fill his lungs with steam, or water, and he can hardly breathe around it. Niall takes a sip just to make it go away and blinks against the rush of caffeine and sugar – two spoonfuls, just the way he likes it. “So, you, er. You work at a psychic shop?” 

“Oh, yeah,” the bloke answers brightly. “I’m Harry, by the way.”

“Niall.” Niall has to take the fag out of his mouth with his hand, and then he spends an awkward moment fitting both the fag and his cup of tea in one hand so that he can shake Harry’s with his other. Harry’s palm is soft and warm.

“It’s quite a nice job since the baking thing didn’t work out. There’s always lots of people coming and going, and no story is ever the same twice. It’s like that poem. ‘That loss is common would not make / My own less bitter, rather more: / Too common! Never morning wore / To evening but some heart did break.’”

Niall swallows against the lump in his throat. “Yeah.” 

“You know, if you wanted, I could do you a reading sometime –”

Harry’s offer is cut short by the strip club door swinging open, letting out a pulse of music and giddy laughter. 

“Niall? Oh, God, there you are.” 

“Liam,” Niall breathes. He guiltily drops the fag after just one pull on it and squashes it under his boot; he thinks he can almost hear the tiny flame sizzle out in the snow. 

Liam pulls up to Niall’s side, rocking on his heels at the sight of Harry. Niall can’t see him very well in the flashing neon dark, but curls frame his face and sit lightly on the tops of his shoulders, and he’s spent most of their conversation with his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets like he minds the cold more than Niall does. “Who’s this?” 

“Harry,” Niall answers. “Harry, this is Liam – my – er,” Niall pauses. “Dead boyfriend’s best mate,” doesn’t quite have the ring to it that he wants, even if it is the most accurate answer. “My good mate,” he finally says.  

Liam offers Harry his hand, who takes it with a bemused look on his face. “What’s this?” Liam asks the minute his hand is free. He takes the paper cup from Niall and sticks his nose right into the opening to give it a sniff. 

“Tea,” Harry replies placidly, same time as Liam says, “Niall,” with no small amount of exasperation. He’s not usually the one someone has to warn not to eat food they found, Niall thinks defensively. Besides, Harry doesn’t seem the murdery type. 

“I was just telling Niall, if he wanted to come by for a reading sometime - ” Harry tries again, his tone pleasant as ever, like he’s blind to the way Liam’s eyeballing him. 

Niall can see the line between Liam’s brows deepening, and this is his stag do, and Niall promised himself to make it perfect for him, so he says, “I’m not much of a believer, and besides, I don’t really have any, like, unanswered questions or whatever. I’m alright, really,” Niall plows on, despite the fact that no one asked. “I was just heading back inside.” 

Harry nods. Liam wraps his fingers around Niall’s elbow, halfway to pulling him back inside. “If you change your mind,” he calls after them, still stood halfway between his shop and the strip club where Liam’s celebrating his last night being an unmarried man, “the offer stands.” 

“Thanks,” Niall manages, and then he turns his attention back to Liam, and the rest of the boys, and pretending he’s the same guy he always was. 

The funny thing is, Niall would’ve forgotten about Harry if Liam hadn’t had too much to drink that night. Niall has to call them a cab with the promise of picking up his car the next day. He wakes up cursing himself at seven o’clock in the morning to the insistent buzz of his alarm rattling itself along the edge of his bedside table. Liam’s sitting mostly upright on the couch when Niall drags himself out of the bedroom to make coffee. 

“Getting married today,” Liam remarks, seemingly to no one in general. He runs his hands through his hair a few times. “God, I shouldn’t have had so much to drink.” He looks down at his palms. “Getting married today,” he says, again. It’s too early for Niall to think of a good response to that, so instead he makes Liam the strongest cup of coffee he can muster and slouches on the couch beside him. Eventually, Liam curls his palms around the empty mug and tucks his face into Niall’s shoulder. “Getting married today,” Liam says, his smile tangible through Niall’s sleeve. 

“Yeah, you are, big boy,” Niall says. He curls his arm around Liam’s shoulder and deliberately doesn’t think about how much Louis loved weddings, and how he probably would’ve asked Niall to marry him, _again_ , and how Niall would’ve put him off with some dumb excuse. You’re drunk, you’re just a sap, you’ve got a life insurance policy on me, haven’t you? He thinks Louis was wearing him down, though. He thinks Louis would’ve worn him down. Niall takes another sip of coffee and doesn’t think about Louis at all. 

Before they go to the chapel, they take a cab back to the strip club for Liam’s car. If they leave it all day it’ll definitely get towed, and probably covered all over with drawings of dicks, if Niall remembers uni boys at all. 

Liam’s car is parked right on the street where they left it. Liam hands his keys over so Niall can take it home for him and snares Niall in a hug before Niall realizes it. The good thing is, with his chin tucked over Liam’s shoulder, Liam can’t see the way his chin goes wobbly, or the way he has to squeeze his eyes shut. “Love you, lad,” Liam says. “Thank you.” 

“‘S nothing,” Niall says. He makes his voice sound gruff so it doesn’t come out watery. “Go on, then. I’ll see you at the chapel. Be good.” 

“You too.” 

The cab pulls away in a puff of exhaust and snow crunched under the tires, and Niall watches it go, Liam’s keys clenched in his palm. He never used to be alone so much as he does now that he feels like he’s caving in all the time. Niall takes a moment to let his face drop out of a smile, and then he turns to Liam’s car. 

Harry’s stood at the counter inside his shop, unashamedly watching Niall. The door is propped open, so Niall can clearly hear him say, “You look cold.”

It sounds like a line out of a play. Niall responds the way he feels like he should, the next line being his. “Reckon you’ve got tea.” 

“I might do,” Harry answers. Niall pockets Liam’s keys and steps carefully over the icy-slick kerb and into Harry’s shop. There are shelves lined with all sorts of occultish things that wouldn’t look out of place in an episode of the X-Files, plus some books on Tarot and palm reading and tea leaves. 

Harry himself is much more interesting to look at. Niall hadn’t been able to see last night, but in the full light of day, he’s striking. His hair is tucked behind his ears and his face looks as wide open and easy to read as a book, bright like there’s a spotlight directed at him, or maybe out of him. It makes Niall glance away, then back, unsure. “You’re not going to read my leaves this time, are you?” 

Harry lets out a choked little laugh. “God, no. Not my type of work at all.” 

“No?” 

“No, I’m more in the medium department.” He pours Niall a cup of steaming Yorkshire from the kettle sat atop a heap of battered books. Harry adds two spoons of sugar without asking, then hands over the chipped Rolling Stones mug with a flourish. 

“So, like, not small, not large…” Niall trails off. He’s not sure why he’s asking. He grew up in Ireland and knows not to step into a fairy circle, sure, but he doesn’t really believe in all this kind of stuff. It’s just stories, campfire tales.

Harry laughs. It comes out an undignified squawk, and Niall can’t help his answering smile. “Funny. No, like, you know. Communing with the dead.”

A shiver crawls up Niall’s spine. “Oh. That’s…so have you…I guess like…” He clears his throat. “Sorry. I haven’t met a lot of, er, psychics, I’m not sure what to say.” 

“That’s okay,” Harry smiles. “I got the feeling.” He hesitates, then adds, “You might like me to do a reading for you sometime. It might help –”

“Oh,” Niall cuts him off with a harsh breath. “So that’s – is that what the tea’s about, and everything?” Jesus. Niall can’t bring himself to make the accusation outright, but he thinks about himself stood on the kerb smoking a fag by himself and thinks what an easy target he’d made, and how terrible he must’ve looked, and wants to shove Harry away. There’s the counter between them, though, and Harry’s leaning back against the counter running along the back wall, his fingers curled loosely around the counter’s edge at either side of his hips. “I should go. I’m going to be late.” 

Harry doesn’t make a move to stop him like he just knows. Niall can hear his quiet offer of, “I’d do it free of charge for you,” rattling around his head the whole time he’s getting his tux on, and lining up at Liam’s side opposite Liam’s lovely sister on the chapel steps, and while Liam’s reciting his vows. When Liam says, “I do,” and the chapel erupts into cheers, Niall’s shaken out of his thoughts. 

Niall plays faithful groomsman the whole reception through, minding which drinks Liam accepts and which Niall scoops out of his hands and puts aside, so he doesn’t spend his wedding night with his head in the toilet. The reception goes for hours and hours, and as long as Niall doesn’t think about how tired he is, or how much he’d like to be in his quiet flat, then he can do a decent impression of himself the way he used to be. 

Liam loops his arm around Niall’s neck just before he slips into the limo to jet off for his three-day honeymoon in Scotland. “I’m so glad you’re here,” Liam says. Niall ignores all the words he doesn’t say and hugs Liam back, tight as he can, and shoves down the _For free for you_ till it goes too quiet to hear. 

He hears it in silences, though. The muffled shelter of his flat becomes deafeningly loud in Harry’s slow, careful, “I’d do it for free for you,” that Niall can’t shake off no matter how hard he tries. He starts playing his records on the record player again and tuning into footie matches he doesn’t really listen to just for something to drown it out. Niall stands under the shower’s staccato spray for long stretches of time watching the water pool around the drain and even plugs in his buzzing beard trimmer to put his stubble into some kind of order. Underneath it all hums Harry’s words and Louis’s voice echoing in Niall’s memories. Sometimes it sounds so real it hurts. 

Niall accepts Liam’s invitation to come down to the pub for a round of drinks the next weekend more readily than even he expected. Liam greets him at the usual booth with a smile that grows when he takes Niall in. “You look marvelous,” he tells Niall, his cheeks already flushed a light pink. 

Niall touches his face self-consciously. “I’m – you too,” and Liam does. The pub is slow for a Thursday night, so they decide to go up the road to the next pub after a couple of drinks. Their boots are swallowed up to the ankle in fresh, powdery snow. Niall can imagine what Louis would say. A grimace, then, “ _Hate this shite, keeps bleeding down my fucking socks_ ,” and he’d tuck himself firmly into Niall’s side. Niall tightens his coat further around himself. 

“ _I’d do it for free for you_ ,” slinks back into his mind like a cat in an alley, and Niall says, “Oh, hell,” and steers a tottering Liam down a side street, back up the way they came, heading for the strip club and beside it, the psychic shop.

Liam figures it out just as they turn the corner the strip club and shop are on. “Niall,” he starts, then stops. “You don’t really want to do this,” he settles for. 

Niall doesn’t even know if the place is going to be open, let alone whether Harry will be there, and he’s not sure what he even wants, anyway. For Harry to admit that he’s just a faker wanting to get paid, or to actually – Jesus – or to actually hear from Louis, one last time, and tell him that he’d have married him, that all those times he said no he really meant yes? 

Niall shakes his head. He’s done thinking, he’s just going to – do.

The bell tinkles overhead when Niall pushes it open, and Harry looks up from the stepstool he’s stood on dusting a shelf full of trinkets. “Hi,” he smiles slowly. 

“Okay,” Niall says. Just, “Okay.” 

Harry looks over him seriously. “Alright,” he says. He carefully climbs down the stepstool. “Why don’t you come on back?” 

The back room is just a space about the size of Niall’s freshman dorm. There’s a low circular table in the middle of the room laden with candles, and a couple of cushions to sit on the floor, and that’s it. 

“Now wait just a second,” Liam finally puts the brakes on. “Niall, this is – and you,” he turns on Harry, the easier target, “this is just about the lowest thing a person can do, leading someone on. Haven’t you taken a look at him? He looks wretched – sorry, Niall – and probably feels worse than he looks, so if this is some con, you can –”

“Liam,” Harry cuts him off gently. He folds himself down to the table and folds his hands neatly in front of him. “Sit down, please? And Niall, you can grab the extra cushion for your knee.” 

“My knee?” Niall repeats blankly. 

Harry nods without looking at him. He’s too busy pulling up his hair, his face no less bright but more serious, more words on the page to read. “The one you had surgery on.” 

Niall feels his face go blank. His heart rate starts going faster for some reason Niall can’t or won’t explain. “Okay,” is all he says, and sits down, numb to his knee. 

“So, like,” Harry licks his lips. “It kinda works like this. People who have unfinished business, they linger around their loved ones, you see? Cuz they don’t want to move on ‘till they’ve sorted it all out. And, like, I can sort of hear them, and if they’re quite a strong spirit, I can sometimes – they’ll sort of – well, you’ll see. Probably. Your spirit feels quite strong.” 

“Uh-huh,” Liam says, doubt rolling off of him in waves. 

“It’d help to talk to him. Your loved one, I mean,” Harry directs this next bit at Niall. 

Niall clears his throat. “Louis. His name’s Louis.” 

“Ah,” Harry says, with a sound like relief. “Louis.” A gentle breeze stirs the candles lit between them. It makes Niall a bit edgy, and then he realizes that there’s no windows in here, nor vents nor fan, and his heart rate ticks up another notch. Harry waits for Niall to say something else, then prompts him, “Your husband?” 

“N-No,” Niall stutters. He clears his throat. “Boyfriend.” 

Harry gently presses, “Long-term, was it?” 

Niall nods. “Two years.” They’d known each other since Niall’s junior year of uni, but hadn’t started dating till after for some reason. 

“That’s quite a while,” Harry says warmly, like he’s hosting a casual chat in his living room. “Two Christmases, two birthdays – oh. No, let me get that right. Two birthdays, then two Christmases, in that order if you please.” 

The muscle in Liam’s jaw ticks, his arms folded tightly across his chest. “Yeah,” Niall says hoarsely. 

“Keep going,” Harry says softly. 

“Um, yeah. One year – this last year – we went to his family’s for the holiday, and I’d gotten him this really nice, like, signed football, right? And he wanted to show his baby brother and sister, Ernie and Doris, how to play.” The memory is as bright and warm as the candles on a birthday cake in Niall’s mind’s eye. He hadn’t known he remembered this quite so clearly. “So we get these toddlers out into the back garden, all bundled up in proper ski outfits, I swear, and Lou puts the ball down in front of little Doris, I swear it on me life, she kicks the ball so hard it goes sailing over the fence into the neighbor’s yard.” 

Harry has his head cocked to the side, a forgotten smile on his face. “The neighbor didn’t mind so much, it was the dog that really gave you a problem.” 

Niall’s breath catches in his chest. “Yeah.” 

“Yeah,” Harry smiles. “Yes, I can hear you. You don’t have to shout.” His glazed eyes are trained on a spot to Niall’s left, though when he looks, there’s nothing there. “Louis says you look good,” he says. “Both of you.” 

Liam sucks in a rattling breath. “That’s quite enough,” he says, rising unsteadily to his feet. “This is bollocks, and we know it is. You’ve – you’ve googled him, or something, I don’t know. C’mon, Niall, let’s go.”

Harry’s face scrunches up in concentration. Niall watches in fascination as the smooth planes in his face shift like waves breaking up the smooth surface of a lake, changing it utterly. “Louis says he didn’t expect you to stay this long, to be honest. He says you hardly ever wanted to go along with him in the beginning. It’s okay,” he adds, maybe to be soothing.  

His words have the opposite effect. Liam sinks back into his seat. 

Harry’s head is still cocked as if to hear better. His voice is softer, now, when he says, “Louis says he’s glad you’re here, that you were there.”

“That doesn’t,” Liam swallows. “That doesn’t prove anything.” 

“You had your first kiss when you were seventeen with a girl at the frosher’s party where you met Lou,” Harry says, quickly now, like he’s trying to keep up. “When you can’t sleep at night you keep yourself up worrying that that birthmark on your throat is cancerous and that your mum doesn’t know how much you love her. You used to call Louis up in the middle of the night with your tux half-on, you were so excited about the wedding. He told you that you were stupid once and still hasn’t forgiven himself. He always thought you were brilliant.” 

Liam puts his face in his hands, his shoulders trembling. 

“He’s here?” Niall asks. 

Harry nods once, definitively. “He’s – he doesn’t like this, talking through me. He can – I can let him, um, take the wheel, for a bit, if that’s alright. He’d like that.”

Take the wheel,” Niall repeats blankly. “Like – ?” 

“Yeah, you know. So I don’t have to say stuff for him. He can say it himself using, erm, me.” 

Niall rubs at his forehead with the heel of his hand. “This sounds mad, Louis,” he murmurs. Another low breeze rustles Niall’s sleeves and the tops of the candles burning on the table. “How do we…?” 

“Hold my hands. I’ll, like, pull him through,” Harry answers. He holds both hands out, palm up, on the table. Liam scrubs at his teary face one more time and curls his fingers around Harry’s palm, and Niall thinks, not for the first time, about how Louis’s always dragging magic behind him. He takes Harry’s hand, too, and then Liam’s. 

Niall can’t remember the first time he met Louis, or even the second, but he remembers the first time he looked up from a round of shots to find Louis looking back, and how flushed and pleased he was, and how he wanted so badly to mean something special to Louis that he wouldn’t go home with him.  

Instead he waited years for Louis to start hanging around Niall’s “to wait for the lads,” crashing on his sofa on the weekends and dropping by to stay late after work watching telly and chatting shit on the balcony, sharing stories of boys growing up in towns that always felt too small. 

Harry blinks like he’s just waking up. His eyes catch on Liam first, and then Niall. A smile lifts one corner of his mouth, and he tucks his chin into his chest. It’s not a very Harry-like gesture. “Hey, boys,” he says, and he doesn’t even sound like Harry. His accent’s gone choppy, Northern. “This is a bit Demi Moore, innit?” 

Liam’s out of his seat and on Harry’s – no, Louis’s – lap in a hot second. “Mate,” he breathes into Louis’s neck. Niall covers his face and slumps down in his seat, listening to his breath rasp across his palms like he’s suddenly inside a very small box. 

“I miss you too, Li,” Louis says, at once big-brotherly and soothing and impossibly fond. Warm fingers curl around Niall’s wrist and tug lightly. “Niall, love, look at me.” 

Niall lets him pull his hands down, but he leaves his eyes closed. “Can’t, can I,” Niall whispers. The words crack on the way out. They hurt. 

“Oi,” Louis says, no real heat in his voice. Harry’s register is lower than Louis’s was, but he sounds so much like himself. Niall’s not sure if he regrets coming here now. He can’t know that Louis’s so close and yet so far away and not drive himself mad in the space between. Niall swallows. “Don’t be mad at me for dying. Or, well, do. That seems fair.” 

Niall’s eyes fly open. “Damn right I’m mad at you, fuckhead. I’m fucking pissed at you. All that – all those years, just, gone, all those years to come, I had my fucking heart set, you have no fucking clue.” Niall didn’t know he was angry till now. His heart burns and burns. “You fucking wrecked me, you piece of shit.”  

“I was planning to grow old with you,” Louis says then. “I think I do know.” 

And he just…won’t. The truth is as simple and complicated as that. Those years to come will never happen. Louis’s fingers weave through Niall’s. “You were going to say yes to marrying me, I know,” he says. There’s even a little preen in his voice, the prat. “And have my fifteen kids, and be the kids’ footie coach with me, and grow old with me.” He strokes the back of Niall’s hand with his – with Harry’s, Louis never had callouses – thumb.

“And I was going to die first,” Niall says, trying his hardest to pretend his voice isn’t as shattered as it is. “Cos I let you name the kids some weird old shit.” 

“Yeah,” Louis grins, one hand moving up to fix his hair before he realizes, oh, right.

Niall curls his fingers so that Louis will feel it and tries to breathe past the crushing weight in his chest. “Harry said you had unfinished business.” 

“Me mum,” Louis breathes. “You’ve got to keep an eye on her, promise me.” His eyes have turned to Liam, who curls his hands into fists on his knees, nodding seriously. “I know you will, of course, but.” He swallows. “And Ernie and Doris, and the twins, and Lottie, and Fizzy. They’ll don’t know not having a big brother.” 

“Louis,” Liam says. Niall looks down; he can’t bear to see Liam cry. “Of course.”  
“And you,” Louis says, turning to Niall. Niall’s breath catches. “Darling, love, sweetheart.” The tips of Niall’s ears burn at every sickeningly sweet pet name, only ever murmured between them right before falling asleep. “Who’s to say we’d have made it the rest of our lives, alright?” 

Niall coughs. “Huh?” 

“I mean,” Louis presses on, “I died, didn’t I. Not you. Plans change all the time. You might’ve fallen out of love with me and my smelly feet and the way I never wanted to tell you when shit was fucked, ‘cos I always wanted you to be happy.” Niall scrabbles at Louis’s hand in his with both hands, now, as if to hold on. 

“Shut up,” Niall says. “Shut the hell up.” 

Louis covers Niall’s hands with his, so they’re stacked back and forth like kids grappling for the top of a baseball bat, one palm at a time. 

Niall looks at him helplessly. 

“You made me so fucking happy,” Louis finishes. But Niall’s not ready for the end. Hasn’t that been the point this whole time? 

He realizes what’s about to happen a split second before Louis moves. Niall glances over to find Liam looking away, his face still red and blotchy. Louis, awkward in Harry’s body, crawls across the space between them and climbs into Niall’s lap. 

It’s everything Niall wanted, and the worst possible thing. It might be Louis’s spirit, but this body doesn’t smell like his, nor the cologne Niall bought him for their last anniversary, nor the fags Niall smokes now, chasing his scent. It doesn’t feel the same. Jesus, Niall’s missed kissing him. “But,” he hesitates, “Harry…” He flushes. 

Louis rolls Harry’s eyes. “Trust me,” Louis says, “he wants you to.” Louis slants Harry’s soft mouth against Niall’s, and Niall recoils, stung by how it’s not Louis; and then he sighs into it, and it’s like all the fight goes out of him at once. Louis’s always kissed like he wanted to win, with his tongue and sharp encouraging bites when he liked something Niall did. All Niall can hear are the slick, soft sounds of their kiss. And then it ends. 

“I’d’ve followed you anywhere,” Niall murmurs, with his forehead against Louis’s shoulder, smelling Harry’s peculiar tea-and-honey smell. 

“The best human,” Louis says, stroking his fingers through the back of Niall’s hair. “You shouldn’t deprive the world of you.” 

Liam makes a soft, hurt, noise, and Niall thinks of all the times he begged them to please stop making out while the game was on, and how much Niall’s going to miss. How much he’ll learn to forget. “Alright,” Niall says, his voice hoarse. “Go on, then, go ahead. Leave me behind now.” 

“Same to you,” Louis murmurs, with one last kiss to Niall’s forehead. 

Harry resumes control slowly. Niall can feel his body shift, tense, and then relax; he raises a hand to his face and touches his beard burn with a soft, “Oh,” that makes something heavy settle in Niall’s stomach. Harry touches Niall’s back carefully, like he’s not sure he’s allowed. “Okay?” he asks, his voice rumbling and slow and smooth. 

“Yeah,” Niall says. He pulls away from Harry, and Harry seems to realize that he’s curled into Niall on his lap, because he almost topples the table over on himself and nearly brains his head on his own knee climbing off. A weird protective instinct surges through Niall. What the hell was Harry thinking giving control of himself over to a perfect stranger like that? He must’ve trusted Louis a lot. 

 _Or_ , says a voice in Niall’s head that sounds an awful lot like Louis, _he trusted you_. 

Liam excuses himself to the bog to finish his cry and wipe his face in peace. He leaves Niall and Harry staring at each other in bemusement, till Harry smiles unevenly, his cheek dimpling. “Well,” he says, “tea?”

“Sure,” says Niall, so they do. Harry even makes toast and he and Liam and Niall sit on the counters and the floor of Harry’s occult shop and swap their favorite Louis stories till the sun rises, and a new day starts. Niall lets the light wash over his face, his eyes closed, and wonders if he can really leave Louis behind when he gets to carry part of him in his heart the rest of his life. 

Harry sees them to the door, the bell tinkling familiarly overhead. “For the record,” Harry says quickly, while Liam ambles out to the road to call a cab, “it wasn’t Louis that made me talk to you that night.” 

Niall touches a hand to his chest. It’s not like the gaping hole in it has gotten any smaller; more like it’s found a place to fit while the rest of Niall’s life goes on around it. It’s a part of him now. “Maybe we could kiss sometime, like, for real,” Niall says. “Not now, I mean. Or even, like, soon. I don’t know when.” 

Harry nods. The corner of his mouth lifts in a smile. “Don’t wait too long, okay?” 

That’s the last Niall sees of him through the rearview mirror as the cab trundles around the corner: Harry, his curls tucked behind his ears, a warm mug of tea in his hand.

His shadow stretches behind him, echoing Harry’s wave - except Harry’s not waving. He’s still clutching his tea, a smile on his face. Niall whirls in his seat to look, but Harry’s shadow is now just a formless blob on the pavement. A breathy laugh slips through the cab. Niall turns back round in his seat and tips his head back, a smile sneaking across his face. 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm crossposting this here to back it up, but the original post is [on my tumblr](https://niallspringsteen.tumblr.com/post/150330029075/ah-i-selfishly-want-them-all-but-either-30-37-or/), where you can always find me. kudos/comments are so highly appreciated. thank you for reading!!


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